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Late New Year's Eve, paper hat on your head, it's hard to believe you'll ever be dead.
But that dream where you're falling you've had since you're five is a bird on your shoulder who whispers goodbye.
Evil Knievel shot up from dead grass.
I loved him better each time he crashed. Liza Minnelli spent a month in her bed certain that Skylab would fall on her head.
One night I dreamed that I dug my own grave and climbed down inside to patiently wait.
Down in the ground I breathed the warm air and blackbirds flew down to nest in my hair.
What is moving will be still.
What's been gathered will disperse.
What's been built up will collapse.
All your dreams fulfilled

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